


He Who Watches (Sherlock/John, Horror)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bacon, Eyes, Gazing, Horror, M/M, M/M/M, Sex, Slash, m/m - Freeform, meatlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:24:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!" (Matthew 6:22-23)</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Watches (Sherlock/John, Horror)

Sherlock watched John covetously as his roommate busied himself in the kitchen with their dinner. Mainly he watched John’s butt, which looked quite handsome that day packaged in those jeans. Not all butts could be described as statuesque, Sherlock had found, but John’s definitely was. God, how he wanted a piece of that.

“God, how I want a piece of that,” he muttered.

“Hm?” asked John, a skillet sizzling in his hand. “Oh, sure. Here you go!”  He lifted out a couple of juicy bacon slabs and plated them for Sherlock. The air smelled delectably of fried meats.

“Thanks,” Sherlock mumbled, embarrassed. He accepted the plate gratefully and dug in.

Sherlock was in love--but alas, that love went unrequited, for Sherlock could not bring himself to say it aloud. How could he possibly express the emotions that had blossomed within his aching heart? How could he bring himself to tell his best friend, maybe his only friend at times, that he dreamt of his gentle touch, that he agonized to feel those lips brush his own, that he dizzied at the mere notion of doing butt things with him? Sherlock didn’t even care whose butt it was, so long as one of their butts was involved.

He was a captive to his own fear. Yet seeing John now, the torture of keeping his secret had become too great. He could no longer go on stealing John’s underwear and letting him think Mrs. Hudson was terrible at laundry. He had to be true to himself.

“John,” he managed, voice quavering. “There’s something I . . . we need to talk.”

“Okay,” said John. He went to sit down but realized there was a pile of gay subtext already on the chair.

He sighed. “Is this yours?”

Sherlock nodded.

John moved it aside, but not without a stolen, furtive glance that may or may not have meant anything. With the subtext out of the way he sat down and started on his bacon, patiently waiting for Sherlock to speak. He was so beautiful, so masculine, that Sherlock could only say his name.

“John . . .”

A tear escaped his eye and splashed onto his bacon, as if so laden with unprocessed feeling it had been squeezed from his brain. While it might sound more sentimental to say the tear came from his heart, such a notion would be ridiculous: the heart isn’t located remotely near the tear ducts. Sherlock wouldn’t care for that imprecise nonsense and neither should you.

John noticed something was wrong.

“Is something wrong?” he asked in that tender, caring manner of his.

“I can’t!” Sherlock exclaimed, launching himself from his chair. “I just can’t!”

He ran up the stairs, leaving the chair clattering behind him. He closed his door and locked it, then realized how romantic it would be if John came chasing after him and _un_ locked it, but he didn’t want opening the door to seem too easy so he put his back against it. Then he sobbed into his hands.

Why couldn’t he tell John how much he meant to him?  He knew the obvious answer: rejection. Loneliness. Losing John would break him. And who _would_ stay with him, he thought morosely. He was damaged goods--too fragile for his own good, let alone to inflict on another. His uncle had seen to that, on a cloudless summer day eternally seared into Sherlock’s calendar of painful memories. Panting and shirtless, he’d taken young Sherlock to the yard out back when no one else was around, and, in a moment that would change Sherlock's life forever, tried to show him how to start the lawnmower.

“Gee, it’s hot out here,” his uncle had said as he put Sherlock’s hand on his mower. “Now look here. That’s the throttle, and that there’s the ripcor--hey, pay attention!”

But Sherlock never did manage to start that mower. They tried for half an hour before they gave up, Sherlock preferring to play in the field and catch butterflies. That’s why he was gay now.

He startled as he heard John’s footsteps coming up the stairs. His heart leapt in his chest--John _was_ coming for him! Perhaps he’d been wrong, perhaps John could love him after all. All those women John brought up to his room had just been a front, the same way Sherlock hid his feelings behind a carefully constructed facade of vaguely undiagnosable Asperger's.

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock held his breath.

“Hey.” John’s voice was low and sensual. “I know you’re having one of your weird freak-outs right now, but I’ve got a friend coming over, so, you know . . . maybe knock it off a bit?”

“Sure,” Sherlock choked out as he fought back a new torrent of tears.

“Because I can’t have you crying while she and I have sex,” John added. “That would be a bit not good, you know?”

As John’s footsteps faded away Sherlock locked the door once again and flung himself on his bed, quietly unraveling. He wished he possessed the courage to end this tense charade once and for all, but he was so afraid of ending up alone. As long as he kept his feelings to himself John would continue having relations with strange women while Sherlock wept uncontrollably in his room. The cycle had to stop.

But right now, he felt weak. The events of the evening had been to much for his weary heart. He would try again the next day, maybe. As his shaking subsided his mind drifted toward calming thoughts of sleep, and then, into nothingness.

 

-xxx-

Sherlock woke when he felt the gaze upon him. He was not well; his body ran hot and cold hot all at once, and the tips of his fingers had gone numb. Fresh sweat lingered on his skin. His face was pallid like the moon lurking outside his window.

He could sense the eyes boring into him. With a conscious act of will he suppressed a wave of sickness that threatened to rise from his belly.  Knowing he could only wait so long, he sat up. And then he saw it.

Watching him from the doorway were the baleful eyes of the demon pig.

Sherlock held himself still, fighting down panic.

 _It will be alright_ , he told himself. _It’s happened before._

The pig snorted and raised one hoof, pawing slightly at the floor, but its eyes never moved. Sherlock’s back went rigid, transfixed by their crimson glow. He could not break contact with the gaze, even if he tried. He’d never been able to, and as far as he knew no one ever had.

His peripheral vision took in the wickedly curved tusks that jutted from the great beast’s mouth. A trail of saliva dripped from its foul-smelling jaws into a sticky puddle below.  Every so often its nostrils flared, and the coarse bristles that covered its back would stand up like an angered cat’s. Occasionally it lifted a cloven foot or swayed its head from side to side. But it did not blink.

They sat there, eyes locked together like that for hours. When the terrible beast finally backed away from his door, Sherlock collapsed almost instantly into fitful sleep.

 

 

-xxx-

The smell of John’s cooking nudged Sherlock awake far earlier than felt reasonable that morning. His sheets were soaked though, which was normal, but with sweat this time, which was not. He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, where John was at the stove again.

“Morning,” John said, casually flipping an egg. A juicy slice of ham lay cooking in a cast iron pan on the other burner.

He turned his head to look at Sherlock and did a double-take.

“Jesus,” he said, setting down the egg pan. “You look like shit.”

Sherlock was barely in a state to respond.

“Hi,” said a woman suddenly from the room. She was sitting at their table, in _his_ chair even, wearing nothing more than a sheet. Sherlock suspected she was probably attractive but he could never tell with women. This one had nice hair at least.

“Oh yeah,” said John, indicating to the woman. “This is Mary. She came over last night.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, just as frozen as he’d been when the infernal swine skewered him with its gaze.

 _Oh._ Of course.

“You must be Sherlock,” said the Mary without a trace of regret for the ills she had doubtlessly polluted John’s body with the night before.

“Y. . .es,” he squeaked out awkwardly.

John chuckled. “Told you he was weird.” He plated the woman some eggs and a sliver of ham, then retrieved another plate for himself.

Sherlock mustered the nerve to speak.

“P-pig,” he stuttered.

John’s ears perked up.

“No shit,” he said, topping his eggs with Hollandaise sauce. “The pig came for you last night?”

Sherlock nodded in assent.

“You poor thing,” cooed the heartless dream-crushing whore, rushing up from her chair to put her arms around him. His shoulders tightened under the assault of her silk-smooth grasp.

“It’s always unnerving when that happens,” she added, unaware of how unnatural and womanly she was. “But at least it’s over.”

She shot a glare at John. “You should give him a break.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” John said, holding up his arms. “I had no idea.”

The promiscuous witch pulled Sherlock toward the table and into a chair. He prayed John would sit between them; he couldn’t bear to be so close to this succubus, not so soon after seeing the pig.

Before joining them John served Sherlock two eggs and an extra large helping of fried ham.

Sherlock perked up slightly, knowing how dotingly his John had prepared this breakfast. If he only suspected how Sherlock felt, maybe, just maybe, he’d come to realize how complete they made each other.

Just then the phone rang.

“I got it,” said John, patting Sherlock on the back. Sherlock’s stomach fluttered at the contact. Sometimes when John touched him he came in his pants, though he didn’t want to do it with a woman in the room. That would be weird.

“So,” said Mary, Queen of Sluts. “John says you guys are detectives?”

This was something Sherlock could talk about.

“Well,” he said through a mouthful of deliciously crisped ham. “ _I’m_ a detective. A freelance one, anyway. John kinda helps me with stuff.”

Mary frowned. “He said he was a doctor.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” said Sherlock, swallowing. “That too.”

Mary took a sudden interest in her eggs and the two didn’t talk much more after that. All the better, really. It made it easier for him to pretend she didn’t exist.

John returned from the hallway.

“That was Greg I just spoke with,” he said. “He wants us downtown on the double.”

“That’s military speak,” Sherlock added for Mary’s benefit. “It means we need to be there twice.”

Mary might have replied had John not come over at that moment and kissed her. On the lips. Sherlock managed not to kill himself, but it required great effort. The knives were right there.

“Sorry, babe, but Sherlock and I gotta split,” John said when he pulled away. His hand lingered on her arm.

“Already?” she asked, pouting. She probably thought she was being cute. “What’s the rush?”

John’s voice was grim. “There’s been a murder.” He looked at Sherlock, who was trying very hard not to think about John and Mary having sex. “You’re not going to like this.”

Sherlock gasped and dropped his fork. “Not Christian Bale-!” He’d developed an innocent crush on the actor when the first of the new Batman movies came out.

“Uh.” John blinked. “No. He’s still alive.”

“Well that’s good,” Sherlock said, relaxing back into his seat. “I was worried there for a moment.”

Mary hid a laugh behind her hand. Had he made a joke?

“Sherlock,” John said with renewed seriousness. “The murderer . . . it was the pig. It’s killed again.”

“Oh.” Sherlock went cold. Visions of eyes like burning embers reappeared in front of him, their presence threatening to swallow him whole.

 _Pull it together_ , he thought. _You’ve got this._

“It’s okay,” he said as he mentally shook away the memory. “We all know it happens from time to time. I--we’ll be fine.”

John laid a palm on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know we will be.”

This time, Sherlock did come in his pants.

 

-xxx-

On first surveillance the crime scene didn’t reveal much.

Apart from some initial embarrassment when they brought out the blacklight-- Sherlock didn’t have time to change his trousers, and thus provided a rather spectacular show--nothing stood out as peculiar. There was a sulphur smell and faintly smoking hoofprints throughout the bedroom, but those were always left behind when this happened.

As for the pig, no one knew why it showed up or what drove it to kill. Many saw the pig now and again but very few ever ever felt the fatal consequences of its unbridled rage.

“No one knows why the damn pig shows up,” announced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade to no one in particular.

“And no one knows what drives it to kill,” John added, looking at Sherlock.

“Yes,” Lestrade noted gravely. “And only a very few ever feel the fatal consequences of its unbridled rage.”

John seemed surprised. “That’s quite poetic.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade replied. “I can’t take credit for that though. Read it online somewhere. I think it was from a story about a couple of detectives, actually.”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then changed the subject by yelling at the forensics team, which was quite effective when you were in charge of running the London Metropolitan Police Service.

“I want this place dusted for prints!” he commanded. “Leave nothing untouched--I want to know everything that was touched!” He spotted a forensics officer prodding an empty gelatin box. “Hey, don’t touch that!”

“God, it stinks in here,” said John, kneeling by the corpse. “Sherlock, I need you to help me turn him over.”

Upon seeing the state of the victim Sherlock paled and ran to the sink, mid-vomit.

“Jesus,” said Lestrade, averting his eyes. “What’s his deal?”

Wiping his mouth with a towel, Sherlock overheard their conversation.

John spoke in a low whisper. “He was visited last night.”

“Oh my god,” breathed Lestrade. “Is he going to be okay?”

John sounded unbothered. “Is he ever okay?”

Lestrade pondered that for a moment. “Good point.”

Sherlock joined them over the body after he’d finished cleaning himself up.

“I’m fine, really,” he said, hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes were developing dark circles. “Nothing to worry about. Just feeling a bit under the weather is all.”

With Sherlock finished being sick they returned to attending the body. Beyond the extensive burn wounds, there were small fibers in the victim’s nose and mouth that lab testing would undoubtedly confirm were bristles of porcine origin. Sherlock’s fingers quavered as he bagged a specimen with a pair of tweezers. Nausea gripped him again but he held it down. There was business to do.

Relieved to have finished the examination, he combed the small apartment for details he hoped would reveal the cause of the pig’s appearance. The victim had lived alone and apparently enjoyed collecting CDs, as evidenced by the stack of Elton John albums on the bedside table. He noticed a greasy paper plate lay crumpled in the wastebin, and suddenly his analytical brain was off doing analytical things.

On a haunch he dug through the bin, looking for the object he hoped was there. It wasn’t.

“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, hand on his hip.

Sherlock scanned the room anxiously. “I’m looking for somethi--there!”

He dove under the bed and recovered a plastic fork. Bits of meat clung to its tines.

“I don’t understand,” said Lestrade, but Sherlock had already darted into the kitchen, leaving the others to chase after him. He opened the fridge and triumphantly withdrew a leftover roast wrapped up in some tin foil.

“If I’m right,” he said thoughtfully, “then this man’s last meal is our motive.”

Lestrade and John shot each other skeptical looks and waited for him to elaborate.

Sherlock continued. “I postulate that insomnia triggered this poor soul to fetch a snack in the middle of the night, inadvertently stumbling into the dread boar that had been lurking, invoking its wrath.” He pointed to the roast with the fork he’d found. “Check the alignment of these cut marks against our timeline and I think you will find they line up with the time of death, minus about, oh, ten to twenty minutes?”

Lestrade took the fork from Sherlock and studied it in awe. “That’s incredible.”

“Can we _do_ that?” asked a member of the forensics team. “I mean, is that even possible?” Nobody seemed to know.

Lestrade looked up.

“I don’t care if it’s possible!” he snapped. “Figure it out! I want it done.”

Sherlock handed the roast off to a forensics officer, shaking his head in pity for the deceased. “Such a tragic coincidence.”

He watched the forensics team carry away the evidence, John by his side. Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Sherlock,” he said, massaging his chin. “I gotta say . . . I’m impressed. This might be the first major breakthrough we’ve had in demon pig-related murders for years.”

Sherlock let himself feel proud. “Thanks.”

As though there was anywhere else he _could_ look in that moment, his eyes crept upward and met John’s. Reflected in their perfect clarity he could see himself, wanting, hoping. No living being but John could elicit that gaze. Sherlock belonged to him. It would be impossible for John to look away.  

“I guess I’ll hail a cab,” said John, looking away. Sherlock bit his lip. Perhaps his gaze had been overpowering. John probably wasn’t ready to be confronted by his own feelings quite so suddenly. It could be scary, to love someone so entirely. Sherlock knew this.

From where he stood he watched John rub his eyes, and thought he saw something shimmering.

 _He’s crying_ , Sherlock realized. _Did I do that?_

This physical demonstration of sentiment was so moving that Sherlock resolved to tell John everything later that night. He knew now that John cared for him, but it was Sherlock who had to take those next brave steps. For them.

He smiled tremulously, and followed John out to the curb.

 

-xxx-

The ride home was excruciating. They did not speak in the taxi, but words weren’t needed. At one point along the way their hands had brushed, and for the rest of trip Sherlock’s fingertips tingled. This was what people in love do, he thought. It was electrifying.

As soon as they got through the door Sherlock acted on impulse. He grabbed John by the arm, closed his eyes, and pulled him into a kiss. He could tell it was what John needed of him, and although it frightened him to be so vulnerable he also desperately longed to make John happy. He’d forgotten how to want anything else.

John’s mouth was warm and enveloping and reminded Sherlock of bacon. His stomach grumbled, and he pulled away, suddenly shy.

“Wow, uh . . . _wow_ ,” said John after Sherlock broke the kiss. “I was not expecting that.”

Sherlock grew red with shame. He’d escalated on the assumption that John liked kissing, because he knew people did that, but obviously he’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said meekly. “Was that too much? I thought you . . .”

John said nothing for a moment and Sherlock had trouble reading his face. Oh god, he’d screwed everything up with that kiss, hadn’t he?

Suddenly John smiled.

“No, of course not,” he said slowly.  “You were great. Better than great. I . . . I’ve never felt that way before.” He paused, playing with Sherlock’s collar. “But you showed me that I could.”

He lifted Sherlock’s face, scanning those angular features with his eyes in wonderment. “You understand me, don’t you.”

Somehow time forgot to move. Sherlock told himself to breathe.

“It wasn’t until today that I realized what you meant to me,” John said hungrily. His lips were so close. “But now I do.”

Dizzy with love Sherlock tried to kiss him again but John shook his head.

“Not yet,” he teased. He took Sherlock’s trembling hand and led him to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. Sherlock sat down, still not quite believing what was happening.

“You just relax,” John purred in his ear. “Tonight I’m going to make you dinner.” He paused to run his fingers along Sherlock’s thigh. “Please. I want to take care of you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face flushed with desire. John was so good to him. “Okay.”

John worked laboriously on Sherlock’s dinner, every few minutes turning around so the two could lock eyes. Sherlock sat at the table, enraptured by the way John’s muscles twitched and flexed as he moved gracefully about the kitchen. He was near driven over the edge when John bent over the oven to retrieve a pan.

“John,” he rasped, salivating at the sight. “There’s something I need to say.”

John came closer, setting the pan down on a trivet Mrs. Hudson had bought for them. The enticing aroma of tender cooked meat wafted past Sherlock’s nose.

“Shh,” he whispered soothingly, bringing a finger to Sherlock’s lips. “Let me do this for you.”

A small moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth.

From the pan John lovingly slid a hearty serving of roast porkchop onto Sherlock’s plate, using a serving fork to help it along. He placed it before Sherlock and atop the roast ladled a generous dollop of sausage gravy. The roast looked so juicy and succulent Sherlock almost thought it criminal.

“It’s been an exhausting, emotional couple of days,” John said, pushing the plate closer to Sherlock. “Right now you need to eat.” He came around behind Sherlock and began massaging his shoulders. It felt nice.

“We have all the time in the world to talk,” John murmured. “I want us to savor this.”

Sherlock relaxed. Of course. John was right. He’d been taking this too quickly. Better to enjoy the journey than race to the finish line. They needed time to process whatever this was between them. How lucky he was, he thought, to have someone so attentive and considerate as John for a lover.

Despite his giddiness Sherlock did his best to eat the dinner slowly, deliberately, while John watched. Throughout the meal their eyes flirted back and forth; sometimes entire stretches went by where they did nothing but look at one another. Each time he cleaned his plate John would quickly produce another helping of porkchop from the pan, urging him to eat more. Sherlock wasn’t all that hungry after his first course but he didn’t want to say no, not if this was what made John happy.

Biting into a cut of meat, a drop of juice had gushed forth and dribbled down his chin. In the blink of an eye John had closed the space between them and was lightly dabbing at the spot with a cloth napkin, his eyes lingering there with a kind of lustfulness Sherlock had never seen before. His face turned pink, and John grinned. God, the things John _did_ to him.

When he’d stuffed himself completely he thanked John and tried to stand, but found he’d become very tired. Must be all that food, he thought sleepily, blinking his eyes to stay awake. He yawned and wondered how late it was. The clock on the wall read 11:00. Had Sherlock really been eating for three hours?

“You need rest,” John said quickly, scooping Sherlock into his nurturing arms. Sherlock didn’t protest, for he was ready for whatever John wanted of him. Sleep, eat, fuck--he’d do it all if it meant John would stay. Loving John was the only thing he knew how to do with absolute surety. Now was the time to tell him.

“I lo-” he started but John hushed him again.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he said, pushing the hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re too spent. You should lie down.”

Sherlock nodded and allowed John to carry him up the stairs to his bedroom-- _their_ bedroom, now. After such a large meal, sleep seemed like a good idea. Sherlock would sleep, if that’s what John wanted. He could do that for him.

John laid Sherlock onto the bed and pulled the comforter over him, stopping to run his hand along Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John forestalled him with a kiss to the forehead.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

Yes, tomorrow. Tonight Sherlock would dream, but tomorrow his dreams would come true. Of this he was certain.

John turned to leave, but not before sharing with him one last glance.

“Good night, Sherlock,” he called out softly as he flicked off the light. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He closed the door and all was quiet.

Sherlock smiled and snuggled under the comforter. In the morning they would talk, he decided, closing his eyes. At breakfast he would tell John he loved him, and of course John would say he felt the same way. They’d be together exactly as he’d imagined they would, only this time when he woke it would all be real.  

Comforted by these thoughts Sherlock fell asleep, his mind visited by calming dreams of the day to come. So deep was he in slumber that he failed to sense the eyes upon him, no longer a burning crimson but the flickering, turbulent scarlet of a rage that would not be denied.

 


End file.
